


and in the shadows, light

by lyannas (crossfirehurricane)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 23:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20054509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/lyannas
Summary: The red temple did not prepare Melisandre of Asshai for what she would find in Westeros; nevertheless, she learned quickly.





	and in the shadows, light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adadzio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/gifts).

> A gift for argelladurrandon on tumblr. Enjoy Bri <3 <3

It is a strange thing to be an oddity, when you came from a land where there were hundreds like you. Hundreds of slaves, hundreds of red priestesses, hundreds of tricks and glamors and spells. Your name meant nothing, just a way to mark you as hardly different from the rest. Your name was given to you; it could be taken away too.

Yet because she was odd, she was feared. It was not Melisandre’s desire to be feared, but fear was good. She showed them very little of herself, so they understood very little of her. They did not know what she was capable of. They did not know about her powders, and her spells, and her ruby. They did not know if what she saw in the flames was her own invention, or a revelation from the Lord of Light. Some feared her well, and kept away from her. Others feared her in anger, and thought of ways to harm her.

Melisandre was foreign, not a fool. Her flames would tell her if harm would come to her. No man would hurt her, unless the Lord of Light willed it.

_ I am his instrument, _ she reminded herself.  _ His to do with as he pleases. To discard, if he so chose. But I pray for more nights before the flames, so I might serve you, Lord. _

Her second protection was more solid, tangible, breathing. Azor Ahai has chosen her for an adviser, and that alone warns off many enemies. Stannis Baratheon did not fear her, though she must admit to herself that she once wanted him to. It would make him a more malleable tool for the Lord of Light, make him agree with her, always. 

She was certain of what he was, what power he held, because he disagreed. Heroes were often such-- betrayers of their own fate, blind to the path laid out before them. That was why the Lord of Light put her here, in his way. She would serve him, guide him, advise him. She would never lead him astray.

Men did not fear him now, but they would. He had earned their respect; that alone would do for now. Meanwhile, she had earned his ear, his questions, his desire.  _ Serve _ , she told herself.  _ If this is what he wants, give it to him. _

Soon enough, she never has to remind herself of those words at all. It just  _ happens _ .

* * *

“If he is chosen by your god, shouldn’t he be more handsome?” The question comes from a prying servant who came to her chambers to feed her fires. She paused to consider the question, but does not answer it before the woman is gone.

Shouldn’t he? It was a fair question. When she thought of the first Azor Ahai, the one who plunged Lightbringer into his wife’s breast, she imagined him as handsome. Tall, square-jawed, sharp-eyed. “Nissa Nissa,” he had called out to his wife in a voice deep and rasping, like gravel ground beneath her sandals.

When Stannis arrived, she watched him, to try and understand the question better. Stannis was tall, yes. He was square-jawed, and black of beard. His eyes were a clear, dark blue, but sometimes they were a stormy sea. His brows were knitted together in rage, his favorite emotion, and he began to shout. Not at her, or about her, that much she could surmise. He spoke too fast and too harshly to understand his anger, but she nodded along all the same.

“It is not easy to be chosen,” she said carefully. “Not everyone understands. But they will-- soon, my king.”

“Do not mock me, woman. I am king of nothing,” he hissed, and that was slow enough for her to understand.

“You are my king,” she said, and his eyes turned clear. The desire was there-- for many things, but for one thing greater than all others. “You would have me do something for you. What is it?”

“Renly,” he said, his brother’s name. There is hate there, hot and burning, but there is love too, though the embers were turning cold. “So long as he lives, I will never get my due.”

There were so many ways to make such a thing happen, but for each man, there could only be one way-- his way, a way that cannot be replicated, not without great pains. It was important to draw in the essence of the request, to tie an invisible thread between death and life, past and future. This was not a job of a puff of black powder. It was not a job for a dark word whispered into the flames. It was not a job for prayer, though she would pray regardless.

“Is that what you want most?” She rose, and closed the gap between them, her footsteps silent against the stone. Her king was like a furnace, boiling with the heat of so many passions. Love of a brother was such a fiery thing. Hate of him burned colder. What enveloped her now was neither, just a warm, pleasant flush that made her sigh.

“Yes,” he whispered as he cupped her cheek in his hand, “and no.”

He kissed her, and Melisandre forgot to decide if he were handsome or not.

* * *

Davos Seaworth is not an evil man. He was misguided, and fought against his fate, and tried to take her life, but he was not evil. He was angry, and sorrowful, and heartbroken, for he lost so many sons, and believed he was losing his king too.

_ Do not be jealous, _ she wanted to tell him.  _ Our king loves you too, else you would be dead. _

The Lord of Light favored this man, though she did not know why. It seemed to be his talent to escape death, a smuggler of his own luck, carrying it in abundance in his pockets the same way she carried her powders in hers. 

He glared at her when she entered her own chambers, where he had been speaking with his son, Devan. The conversations ceased as he watched her, like an animal scouting its prey. His eyes told her that he hated her, or something close to it.

“I do not hate you, Lord Seaworth,” she said, unsmiling. He appeared startled, before he calms himself again.

“I have no care for what you feel for me, priestess,” he said sharply, before storming out of her rooms. Devan looked after his father, then fixed her with an apologetic glance.

“The fires, Devan,” she told him, her gaze fixed on the dwindling flames.

“Y-Yes, my lady,” he answered, offering her a shy bow before he knelt to pick up a fresh log.

_ Someone taught you to be tender,  _ she mused upon the shy boy. _ It must have been your father. _

He would be no hero, Davos Seaworth, but he was friend to one. There were corners of Stannis’s heart that he knew better than any other. Davos would advise; Melisandre would serve. By no will of her own, his advice would so often fall flat, while her serving would be well received. This would anger him. It might even bring him to sorrow.

Azor Ahai was a prickly man. That, she could not control.

* * *

There are times when she wanted to say more.

Visions and flames, that was what most concerned Stannis. Where is he going? What will he do? Will he win? Will he lose? He could not live with himself if he lost.

“Have patience,” she would tell him. “The Lord of Light will see you through, when the night is dark and full of terrors.”

He fell asleep with his arms around her, worry creased between his dark brows. These were the times when she wanted to speak, when he could not hear her, when she was trapped in his arms with no desire to drowse at all.

_ I hear names, _ she wanted to say.  _ Old names that do not belong to me anymore. Melony. Lot Seven. I want those names gone-- would that you could raise Lightbringer against them, and cut them down. _

Few things haunted her more. She wondered how he would react, if she came to him with her fears, the same way he came to her with his. 

_ What did you see for her in the flames, Lorra?  _ Another voice calls out in her mind.  _ She is pretty— will she serve at the Lord of Light’s pleasure? _

_ No _ , a woman’s voice replied.  _ This girl will be a priestess. Bring on the next lot. _

Her king grunts in his sleep, tossing one way, but still keeping an arm around her. She could hear his jaw work against his teeth; she touched his black beard, and the grinding ceases. Her head returned to lay on his chest, where she heard the  _ thump-thump _ ing of his heart. She imagined how his blood coursed through it, redder than her hair, keeping him alive. It almost soothing enough to make her want to sleep.

* * *

The truth was, the flames are rarely ever so clear. Her duty was to read them, though oftentimes there were no words, not in this crude tongue, to fully describe what she had seen. Then even when she pieced the words together, they would fall on many deaf ears, like Jon Snow’s, or on those who did not wish to hear them, like Stannis’s dear onion knight.

She searched those flames now for some greater understanding of the Lord of Light’s plans; he always revealed so little, but men asked for so much. Details, a whole picture, every step-- that was what men wanted from the flames, and what she could not offer. There was no light without shadow; what R’hllor wished to reveal, he would.

All she could see tonight was Stannis; he would come to her, as he so often did, and be her second safeguard against the cold.  _ I have the fires, and I have Stannis, _ she told herself, careful not to smile. Her king was many things, but not one for sentiment. It never seemed to please him when she smiled, for he always ground his teeth and looked away.  _ My king, one day I will see your cracked and broken teeth in my flames, _ she wanted to say, though she would get the words wrong, and he would find it not very funny at all.

As her flames promised, Stannis arrived, ducking his head into her little room, already frowning. When he reached for her, swift and rough as his grasp was, she knew he would mean no harm. Always, she searched for harm that might come to her, and never had Stannis’s face appeared bearing such a threat. She hoped it never would.

“I must leave by dawn,” he said simply, staring down at her with those sharp blue eyes.

“I know,” she answered. “Let us pray to the Lord of Light for your protection.”

He made no objection as she pulled away from his grasp and stood before the flames, arms open, palms out. He made his way beside her, but behind her, watching. “Lord of Light, we thank you for the end of this day, and beseech you to bring the dawn soon after. Brave Stannis leaves at such light, as your humble servant, to banish evil and darkness with his bright sword. R’hllor, fill his heart with fire, so he might serve you well when the night is dark and full of terrors. We beg for his protection as he carries out your will, O Lord.”

She goes on for some time, lost in prayer. Even without the chorus of followers, it is like a dance, winding down a path of light, trying to find the fullest way to thank R’hllor. But there was also her own human greed; she did not know what would become of Stannis, but she knew that she needed him. More than just as a king, but as something more.

When she turned to face him once more, he is solemn, jaw set.

“Does your R’hllor promise my safe return?” He asked. Always, this question, and always, no answer.

“I have seen no such promise— but I prayed for it.”

“You must keep yourself safe too,” he said, surprising her. “Jon Snow can be trusted, but I cannot say the same of each of his men.”

_ I know _ , she almost said,  _ I have tried to tell him. _

“And… stay warm,” he added in a mumble. “It is freezing here.”

“My flames keep me warm, as does the Lord of Light.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he grumbled. “I already heard tonight’s sermon.”

Sermon? Was he calling her a preacher?

“I would spend this night with you,” he said, quietly this time. He was looming over her, ready to hold her again.

“As would I.”

Then he pulled her body to his, grasping and warm, and pressed his lips to her.

_ Lord of Light, protect your servant, _ she prayed as he drew her gown over her shoulders.  _ He serves, and I serve, and I have come to love the serving. _

That was not part of her reason for being here, she knew, but she did not want it to end.

_ Draw out this night a little longer, o Lord. _


End file.
